The Scarlet Pimpernel: Sons of France
by 7Knight-Wolf
Summary: Armand can no longer bear the shame of having betrayed the Scarlet Pimpernel in El Dorado...Takes place after the books. T for some violence. This story had been under Misc. Books, but now it's finally here for TSP fans to read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**The Scarlet Pimpernel: Sons of France **

**Chapter 1: The Old and the New **

(Paris, France after the Revolution)

Lord Anthony expected a jest, a laugh, a party—any sign of jubilation from England's handsomest dandy. But Sir Percy Blakeney did not so much as drink a toast in celebration of his adversary's final defeat.

"Look here, old chap; I thought you were a sportsman!" exclaimed Tony, clapping his friend on the back. "Don't say you're so much the philanthropist that seeing the Fox's head fall was not the least bit satisfactory!"

Percy fixed his eyes on Tony, and those sea-blue windows dared to let an expression creep through: a hint of distaste. But when Percy smiled, blinked his eyes, and brushed the untied strand of blond hair from his forehead, the look of a fool was back on his face. "Why, m'dear Tony," he said, drawly, "methinks the sort of satisfaction of blood spilled in the basket…is not agreeable to respectable man after a fine meal…unless of course, the highly honorable personage is one of them demmed ruffians who built the contraption himself. Sink me, but even I never supposed our old friend Chauvelin would come to an end so suddenly."

Percy closed his eyes for a moment and relieved the scene which took place only this afternoon, and which Percy and his comrades, though present, had had no hand in arranging. There he was, Percy the master of disguise dressed as a poor French beggar and surrounded by his fellow jocular lords similarly attired. Thinking it great fun to include the equal and brotherly peasants in his dirty work, the executioner who controlled the guillotine demanded that one citizen rise form the crowd and take his turn at the murderous machine. Laughingly and with unspeakable malice, the executioner pointed to a boy not ten years old.

"Come and try the game," he roared at the child. "Put the traitors to death with your very own hands!"

Percy intervened, fortunately for the child who was looking innocent and quite sick. In his roughest voice, Percy demanded that he would very much like to put a traitor to death; and up to the guillotine he came. Tony and Andrew watched anxiously, wondering what their chief would do. What could Percy do?—certainly he would not control the deadly contraption himself, murdering in cold blood; yet if he refused to do so, it would be his head beneath the guillotine next.

The very first "traitor" who was led to his death was not an aristocrat; indeed, there were few aristocratic heads falling these days, for Napoleon had risen to power and was beginning the Bourbon Restoration. With the re-installment of the aristocracy, it was only conspirators within the government who were put to death. The Reign of Terror was over. Thus it was not surprising that, still dressed in the inevitable black, still sharp as a fox and cool as a cucumber, Chauvelin was being led to his death.

Was Percy tempted to do the job himself: to kill his arch-nemesis? Tony and Andrew could not say, for their chief's face was unreadable. Percy acted quickly; he gave a great shout and a curse, pretending to cut his hand on the knife of the guillotine while preparing it for its most admirable patriotic duty. The disappointed executioner told Percy to get off the platform and let a professional do the job, but before obeying, Percy paused beside the impassive Chauvelin.

"What are you staring at, dog?" growled Chauvelin. When he looked Percy straight in the eye, however, recognition was momentary. Chauvelin turned deathly pale, his eyes widened, and his face emanated shock, hate, and incredulity. "The Scarlet Pimpernel," he mouthed, but no words were audible.

Percy chuckled ever so quietly, and patted Chauvelin on the back. "Well, if isn't Chaubertin!" he whispered. "I shall give your regards to everyone back at Blakeney. I'm dreadfully sorry I can't save you; had I come prepared I would have tried, for I hate to see anyone die, even the dirty and black-hearted criminals. Well, m'dear fellow, 'twould seem I've beaten you for the last time, eh? Cheerio."

Thus descending the platform, Percy joined his comrades. As they hurried away from the Square, they dared to look behind them just once. Chauvelin, his face still deathly white, had evidently replaced his shock with madness. The hate building up all these years, and the terrible, unspeakable humiliation of his last meeting with his nemesis, effectually drove Chauvelin out of his mind. He struggled in the hands of the executioner and screamed to the very top of his lungs, pointing at the retreating Englishman, "The scarlet Pimpernel lives! He's a ghost, he's a demon! Aahhhhhhhh! No! The Englishman is here! He will haunt us forever!" His bloodcurdling screams filled the whole Square and the alleys and houses beyond. "The ghost," he continued, "the pimpernel! The Scarlet—"

But here his wail was stopped as the knife came down. Andrew and Tony watched, and there was a hint of a smile of the latter's face. But Percy did not see Chauvelin's head fall. He had covered his eyes. "Le Bon Dieu decides," he murmured; "not I."

Now back in England, the irrepressible hero and his family and comrades were having a peaceful dinner party. Everyone was here; Marguerite, Tony, Andrew, Hastings, the Prince—even Armand with Jeanne whom he had recently married.

Tony nodded his comprehension of Sir Percy's attitude. "Perhaps I was a bit sadistic this afternoon, Percy. I'm only glad that our work is done I may brag to the ladies."

"You'll have to do a good bit of bragging, Tony," laughed Percy; "to make up for lost time. I see you and Hastings both are the only bachelors left in the party, eh wot? Even our stiff-necked young Armand has got himself a gal."

"And a French one, too," said Tony. "It seems that France is the ideal place for gals."

"I'm sick of France," said Hastings.

The whole party laughed. "But all jests aside," said Armand, always less jocular than the rest, "is our work in France truly done? I know you summoned us all here, Percy, for a reason; but you have not yet explained your raison d'être. What did you discover in France this afternoon?"

"Have patience, my young friend," said Percy merrily. "I shall tell you what we learned in France…all in good time. First, I must introduce to all present a recent addition to my circle of friends. It was for the purpose of meeting my bonnie new acquaintance that I arranged this party. My new friend, she is a young lady whose loveliness is unmatched in all the world."

Tony smiled. "And I did not even need to arrange a trip to France."

Percy frowned. "Younger than that, Tony; younger. Follow me, and you must all stay very quiet."

Much to the curiosity of the group, Percy and Marguerite led them into the upper chambers of Blakeney manor, into a very fine nursery. A single candle burned on the windowsill, giving just enough light to make visible a small cradle, decorated with the finest lace blankets, in which lay a tiny infant. It snoozed quietly, its large eyes closed, and what small amount of hair it had was fair. The baby was so little, but it already bore a resemblance to its father, with the straight clear brow, light hair, and slender hands.

"Percy, you rascal," whispered Andrew. "You didn't tell us!" He turned and bowed to Marguerite. "Congratulations, Madame! Your daughter shall grace us with her beauty as she grows and matures. She already looks so like her father. May I inquire as to her name?"

"We decided to call her Scarlet," answered Marguerite with a grateful smile; "and I daresay you all comprehend the meaning of such a name."

There was great rejoicing and celebration of Percy's daughter. Yet all parties must end, and soon all the guests had cleared away with the exception of Armand; Jeanne had gone ahead in the carriage, too weary to stay up any later. By One O'clock in the morning, only Percy, his wife, and her brother stood in the parlor; the grand parlor which was lit up by a majestic fireplace and decorated with tapestries upon which was embroidered the unavoidable Scarlet Pimpernel.

"You are so glum today, young scalawag," remarked Percy, with a glance at Armand.

The latter was pacing the room restlessly, running a hand through his long, dark, tied-back hair. His deep brown eyes shifted their gaze constantly; Armand was restless. "I am only anxious to set about the next mission," he explained. "I am not as experienced with reading your emotions as Ffoulks, but I am most certain that your era as Scarlet Pimpernel has not reached its climax. Yet now you have a daughter to care for, and who will you rescue since the Reign of Terror is done with?"

Percy carelessly played with his monocle. "Alas, I'm afraid I shall disappoint our dear friend Dewhurst when he hears that our work is indeed far from over," he said. "Napoleon has not yet proved himself to be a good or wise old chap…but I suppose we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt…with the Bourbon Restoration and all that, wot?"

Armand creased his quizzical brow. "Percy, what are getting at?"

"I'll wager me own grandmother that there are an awful lot of good fellows snatched away from their country…who have a mind to return. What I am suggesting, m'dear St. Just, is that we give those bloody aristos a more pleasurable and safe journey back to their homeland…a journey excluding any remaining enemies of the aristocracy." The grand leader's face grew suddenly serious. The drawly tone was gone from his voice and was replaced by the low, calm voice of the Real Percy, with its passionate undertone. "Armand, this is my duty," he stated. "I hereby release you and the League from your oaths, now that the Terror is done with; but I shall continue to help the poor souls who desire to return to France. It's out with the old mission and on with the new."

Armand looked troubled. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Blakeney…I've heard this Restoration described as the homecoming of the great sons and daughters of France. You with all your philanthropy, surely you do not deem the aristocracy any greater than the other classes of citizens? Surely you believe that it is neither righteous nor just that the lords and ladies may sit upon a fine hot afternoon and devour cordial and cake while reclining on their sofas, whilst the peasants toil and strive to keep from starvation?" Armand slammed his fists down upon the parlor table.

His dark, radical eyes flashed up once at Percy, but he was met only by a calm silence. "Percy, come now!" Armand exclaimed. "I was not born wealthy; Marguerite and I were poor orphans till she met with fame at the theatre. How can you say one man is greater than another?"

Percy chuckled. "Sink me, you young thing, but I have not even given an answer yet. A man's worth is defined by his heart—there, even an Englishman can admit that adventures and popularity do not sum up a man's character. Certainly, it is not right for the poor to be taken advantage of, wot! Wait and see, however, if the unjust treatment of the poor does not improve; for many having experienced such humbling conditions themselves, some aristocrats must have learned something of fair play."

"I'm sorry," said Armand quietly; "I did not mean to accuse you. …I am merely tired."

Percy laughed. "You are not tired, but paranoid and under the false belief that I am dealing you some sort of distaste. If I know a St. Just, and I have known one or two in my life, this frightful behavior can only mean one thing: you are about to ask me a question, to which my reply will undoubtedly be in the negative; and thus your sensitivity to my every expression. I'll be blown if you ain't a juvenile frog-eater uncommonly easy to read!"

Armand grumbled, "Do stop making sport of me! I will ask you: yes, even in the presence of my most beloved sister, I will ask a private question of you." Armand knelt beside Percy and bowed his head. "I am confounded. You know it is so. Keeping my treachery undisclosed through the years has done nothing to excuse my wrongs, and I am sick of secret shame. By suffering punishment, I wish to win back the honor which I sold; and you who I have wronged and betrayed must deal out the punishment."

Marguerite had been very quiet all this time, her eyes never leaving Percy. Many days she had been trying desperately to read her husband's thoughts and guess the most insane way he could sacrifice himself for the sake of others. Now, with the Bourbon Restoration, she understood his next scheme; at which point the little woman's large blue eyes crowded with tears. Why must Percy keep leaving her?

Then, when Armand made his sudden proclamation to Percy, Marguerite's mind was distracted from her grief and she became utterly puzzled. "My dear Armand!" she exclaimed. "What can you mean by all this? You have not harmed Percy…I would know if you had committed any crime."

Armand's next move was heartrending. He meant to look up at his sister and begin to calmly disclose the truth about what happened during the rescue of the Douphin—the way he hotheadedly broken his oath and betrayed Percy in the hope of rescuing Jeanne—but when he turned his young face up to Marguerite, Armand's eyes moistened slightly with tears and he could not speak for fear of his voice cracking. Although St. Just had always been more dramatic and vulnerable than the rest of the League, here his susceptibility was at its peak.

Marguerite knelt down on the carpet beside her brother, and then came the hardest part for Armand: telling the whole story, not excluding the least detail of his foolishness. While Marguerite and her brother spoke of the past, Percy did not feel it his place to interfere; but he stood stock-still with a grim look on his hard face. Blakeney had never wanted Armand to confess and be shamed; he wanted it secret so his young friend would be protected.

At last Armand finished his story and Marguerite drew back, horror on her face. Here Percy intervened. "I know it is quite impossible," he laughed, "to change your mind about anything, Armand. I shall give you the chance to win back your honor by serving me in the Bourbon Restoration; but sir, may know this: you broke an oath for love's sake, and were tricked into doing so by Chauvelin himself. Even had your crime been inexcusable," added the grand leader with a solemn expression, "I have come to realize that neither myself nor any other man on this earth can judge of a man's honor. Le Bon Dieu decides; not I."

Armand sprang to his feet, bowed to Percy, and said, "I am ever at your service, Blakeney! Let me know as soon as you need me; now I must get back to my Jeanne. From now on my life will be better; out with the old shame and onto new glory! I shall redeem myself!" And as lightly as a delighted child, he sprang out the door and ran all the way to his new residence across the river.

In the dark corner of an English Tavern not too far from Blakeney Manor sat an elderly Frenchman clad in fine, stylish clothes. His wife sat wit him, and they both had a sour look about them. Upon the table untouched were some light refreshments, but the object of interest to the old couple was the blood-stained letter in front of them. It was a notice from France informative of the death of certain conspirator against Napoleon, accompanied by a personal letter from the executed victim.

"He has given us his last request," said the old man sullenly. "Chauvelin, my close cousin, was killed this very afternoon on charge of conspiracy against Bonaparte. He demands that we continue his life's work and avenge him justly."

The sour old woman reeled back in disgust. "When your cousin left the aristocracy to join the ranks of the Revolutionaries, I knew it would come to naught! I suppose we must comply with him, for it was Chauvelin who granted us immunity from execution many times. Yet I have a son to look after: the very nephew in whom Chauvelin delighted, for he had future plans for the boy."

"You must take care of Chauvelin's brat," ordered the aristocrat. "I shall do the rest."

"I say, what did Chauvelin mean about continuing his life's work?" asked the other. "I suppose he wants us to endanger our lives by plotting against Bonaparte."

The old man shook his gray head. "Nay, we need not risk our lives over the favor Chauvelin asks of us; for in this letter he describes the purpose of his life not as loyalty to the Republic, but as the hunter of the infamous ghost, The Scarlet Pimpernel. I do not know the Pimpernel's identity, but Chauvelin signed this letter in his own blood that if we do not continue to hunt the Englishman, his spirit can never be at rest."

"Spirits," scoffed the woman scornfully. "You, Sir leGourd, cannot believe in such things!"

The old man, leGourd, shrugged his frail shoulders. "They say the Pimpernel himself might be a spirit. All superstition aside, a bit of the old aristocratic honor still hangs in my mind, for it was beat into me as a boy; and in return for the favors Chauvelin has performed for our benefit, I feel inclined to comply with his wish. I shall become as Chauvelin himself; I will be his avenger. If I once rest while the Pimpernel lives, let me be struck dead at once for shame. I shall redeem myself."

Old Sir leGourd and old Lady leGourd then left the tavern. The fire of vengeance was burning in the vengeful eyes of the aged aristo, and his sweating hand grasped the last words of Chauvelin, signed in blood.

Unsuspecting, Percy and Marguerite looked adoringly down on their sleeping babe, kissed each other goodnight, and went to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: The Restoration

** Sons of France Chapter 2: The Restoration **

Armand tossed and turned and all night. When he finally fell asleep, he only started awake again, and at first could not understand why. Then he remembered his dreams. He was often troubled with dreams and visions; however, perhaps the apparitions were merely products of the wild imagination of the always-dramatic Armand. At any rate they only came about when he was suffering from nervous stress. Yet sometimes the dreams were so real—Armand remembered a few years earlier when Jeanne had been arrested, and the horrible vision of his love going to the guillotine was so shockingly real.

Jeanne sat up in bed. "Are you yet awake?" she asked, concerned. "Is it the dreams again, Armand? What did you see?"

"It was Chauvelin," Armand shuddered. "They executed him, but he broke out of the coffin. And he went after Percy…" then Armand stopped short and passed a hand across his sweating brow. "Then you came to rescue us; you were there, Jeanne."

"Such nightmares," Jeanne whispered concernedly. "I'm sorry, my dear. Try to rest again. Whatever stress is assailing you, sleep will help relieve it. Come, my love." She leaned over and giver him a gentle kiss.

Armand tried to sleep again. But the dreams were only worse; there was the ghostly figure of Chauvelin rising from the coffin, garments white as paint instead of his usual black clothing; he came after Percy, wielding the knife of the guillotine itself. Then Percy and Armand were down on the ground, and the ghost was coming at them. Jeanne ran to Armand to protect him, with her long tawny hair streaming behind her, and her loving tan-colored eyes opened wide. Then, oh hideous! There were bodies everywhere! Armand saw himself running through the rain—was it rain or waves?—trying to get home, only to find more bodies on his doorstep. Soldiers caught him, arrested him, took his gun; how long had he been carrying a gun anyway? For a moment there was peace, the hideousness of the corpses had vanished. Armand saw glistening sea and sky, and he heard a woman's voice saying, "Come home to me."

The dream repeated itself again and again, and when Armand woke up it was past noon. Jeanne and the hired kitchen maid would be preparing a nice luncheon. Shaking off the fingers of clinging horror and mystery, Armand scrambled out of bed and down into the kitchen.

That afternoon Armand received a message from Percy instructing him to come to the supper party at Sir leGourd's Manor. "LeGourd?" wondered Armand. "I do not remember Percy rescuing any Frenchman by that name. I was certain he meant to sail a boatload of the émigrés to France today."

Despite his puzzlement, Armand went to leGourd's supper. They had invited as many great men and women of this area of England as could possibly fit into their Manor, which was about half the size of Blakeney's. Although this event was far from the much-talked-of, highly fashionable parties thrown by Blakeney, present at the dinner were a few important lords and ladies, and many French émigrés. Among then were the Comte de Tournay and family. Armand had no trouble finding Percy, for he was as usual in the center of attention with his wife.

It was always a difficult feat to get any serious dialogue from Percy at a social function, where he must play the fool to hide his identity; but at one point Percy casually passed Armand while reaching for some refreshments, and whispered, "Tonight the émigrés present will be taken to France aboard the Daydream. I shall need your assistance."

Armand nodded and tried to look casual. However, he was inspired anew everyday by the Scarlet Pimpernel's genius; how could one man, while acting a fool in the epitome of social London and caring for a family, arrange such daring escapades in such a short time? Of course, thought Armand with disappointment, this venture was not as daring as others. With the Bourbon Restoration it was perfectly natural and common for aristos to return to their homes. Armand wished that he were doing something more dangerous for Percy than just going for a sail; he ought to be starving in a jail for at least two weeks, which was the same torture he had cost Percy. How could rigging and rowing restore Armand's honor?

When the supper party was nearly over, and Armand had dispatched a messenger informing Jeanne of his trip to Paris, Marguerite approached. She had not yet given an opinion concerning Armand's treachery; but he knew that she would be inwardly furious at the very least, for he caused her pain for two weeks by making her husband suffer in a filthy dungeon. In addition, the shame of having an oath-breaking brother must be great. Marguerite seemed to have nothing to say; but apparently she had sensed Armand's need to see her.

Indeed, there was a question which troubled Armand just now, and which Marguerite alone could answer. "Your memory is better than mine," said her brother; "do you…do you remember our mother, Margot?"

Marguerite looked stunned as she answered, "I suppose I do a little…but why?"

"I've been having these dreams," rejoined Armand, quietly. "It's the same dream every time…but perhaps I should not relate the gruesome details to you. Let me only say that at the end of every dream, I see the ocean and I hear the voice of a wonderful lady calling to me. I think—I think that lady is our mother."

Marguerite did not know what to say. In all truth, she was worried about the sanity of her brother. Besides her knowledge of Armand's treachery in the past, now he was haunted by nightmares. "…Perhaps you have been overly stressing," said Lady Blakeney coldly. "I don't recall our mother being in any way attached to the sea; but she did have a wonderful voice. And Armand, will you please keep quiet about the nightmares in public…? People will think you unsafe."

Armand nodded. "I must go and help the skippers prepare the Daydream for our mission tonight. I shall see you when I return, and…" he paused, looking earnestly into Marguerite's eyes. "Margo, in my dream I was in trouble and Jeanne came to aid me—if my return is delayed, keep Jeanne safe. Do not allow her to follow me; do you understand?"

Marguerite nodded, but with reluctance, for she believed that every wife had the right and the duty to be with her husband in time of need.

It was a fine night and the cool tang of the sea air was relaxing. The smell of fish from the English docks lingered on the wooden boards of Percy's Yacht, the expensive but efficiently speedy Daydream. Armand and the skipper were the only people awake now, for it was well into the night; Armand had been restless again and came out, leaning over the deck railing, to enjoy the flap-flap of the wind in the sails and stare into the watery depths beneath the ship.

"Armand St. Just?"

Vicomte de Tournay, the aristocratic swordsman only a year or two older than Armand, was the speaker. "I could not sleep for excitement," he explained. "Long have I dreamed of returning to my country, and restoring the old ways of France. I must admit, however, that I was much surprised to accept the offer of a ride from Blakeney; although my sister Suzanne always favored the Lady, Blakeney and his wife are traitorous dogs in my manner of thinking."

The passionate Armand longed to object and defend Percy and Marguerite, but he restrained himself. The Vicomte, after all, did not know that Percy was the Scarlet Pimpernel, the man who had saved his entire family from the guillotine. In fact, the Vicomte probably thought Percy was a coward to this day for refusing to fight a duel with him several years ago, when the Victome had only been a boy.

"Your English ahs improved very much," remarked Armand, attempting to be courteous. "If you have nothing particular to say to me, I must retire for the night…"

"As a matter of fact," interrupted the Vicomte, "there is a small episode I should like to divulge. When we supped with Sir and Lady leGourd tonight, I noticed you were present at the party. Sir leGourd asked whom I was observing, and I told him your name. In case he should despise the name St. Just, I informed the landlord that you were only distantly related to the despicable Antoine St. Just. To further defend your dislike of the Revolution, Armand, I disclosed to him the rumor that you have seen the Scarlet Pimpernel himself; the man whom, we all know, is most passionately in antagonistic towards the Revolution. Upon the mention of the Scarlet Pimpernel, leGourd grew quite grave. He was intent on speaking to you, had you not already departed the house. I thought it well to inform you that Sir leGourd is extremely anxious to make your acquaintance and learn the popular stories of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Armand was shocked. His face tensed, but he said nothing. Could there be some harm, he wondered, in the disclosing of Armand's identity to the wealthy leGourd? Or was the Vicomte's gossiping tongue undisruptive, and leGourd's interest in the Scarlet Pimpernel only natural? Despite reasoning, Armand felt that leGourd was not trustworthy.

The Vicomte went away and Armand remained staring down into the black ocean depths until sunrise, when the Daydream pulled up to the wharfs on French soil. It was truly glorious sight for Sir Percy, and even for Armand, to see the men and women who had suffered so much these past few years return to their country. There was a sort of mellow happiness in Percy's heart now, for he knew that some of the aristocrats he rescued were so much humbler than before, and much more likely to do honest service to their country.

"The Revolution was devoid of sense, cooperation, and respect for Le Bon Dieu," thought the old Comte De Tournay; "and without these things, France shall never prosper. Yet it is with optimism that, called from over the sea, the sons of France return to their nation. We will share our new humility and ideals with our brothers."

The next few hours were wearying for Armand. Finding a reasonable inn in which to house the De Tournay family, and then make inquiries of the government agents present about how much money would be granted to the Comte upon the restoration of his rank—these things were not as difficult as they were was boring. Armand wished again he could be doing something worthwhile. Once the De Tournay family was comfortably installed, with the promise of a re-opened house and a decent amount of money, Percy and Armand set off on the Daydream. By nightfall they would reach an English inn, spend the night, and in the morning return to their own families.

Armand stood on the deck almost the entire voyage back, not even daring to try sleep despite his weariness, for he was overwhelmed with thoughts of regaining his honor, keeping Jeanne safe, and restoring the respect that Marguerite used to give him before she knew of his treachery.

At the "Fisherman's Rest," Percy's inn of choice, Armand remained in the public room of the tavern for many hours. Sometime just before midnight, he was startled out of an uneasy doze by the creaking of stairs from the upper floor. Down the stairs came an elderly and sour-looking man, with a drooping white traveling-cloak hiding his expensive garments beneath.

"Who goes there?" cried Armand, springing up in surprise.

The old man laughed. "Relax, my young friend! Are you always this uneasy at wayside taverns? Please pardon me if I am intruding; my name is Sir Fernand leGourd, and you must be Armand St. Just; the innkeeper told me you were here."

"The innkeeper or the Vicomte De Tournay?" said Armand, frank as always.

The old man's cracked chortle came out again, and he put his hands up as if to surrender. "Alright, alright; in truth I came to this inn for the soul purpose of speaking with you, St. Just," he stated. "Rumors have it that you, an enemy of the Revolution, have come face to face with the Scarlet Pimpernel himself! Would you tell me of your hero the Pimpernel?"

With extreme caution and rigidity, Armand gave brief tales of the Scarlet Pimpernel—how the hero had saved over three-score aristocrats from the guillotine—but he was sure to give only details which an outsider might collect. "As for knowing the Pimpernel personally," said Armand with a smile, "how I wish I did! Every Englishman alive—and a few Frenchmen as well—wish to join the Pimpernel's league!" Armand was determined that he would not slip up and accidentally give away information as he had in the past.

LeGourd still smiled complacently, but the sunken eyes in his wrinkled face showed that he was anything but amused by the lies being told to him. Armand knew at once that leGourd was aware of more than he let on. "Listen here, master Armand," the aristocrat said, placing a friendly hand on St. Just's shoulder; "I shall try to put things in perspective for you. I had friends in the Revolution; from their databases I have collected all sorts of valuable information—for one thing, you are a member of the Pimpernel's League. I need to know where the Scarlet Pimpernel is hiding; it is a question of personal honor.

"And I know you're not warm to the idea," went on leGourd, just as Armand was about to heatedly interrupt; "but let me assure you that giving your life to keep a mere man's identity safe is a most uninteresting and tedious cliché."

Armand shoved the old man away from him and clenched his fists, ready to fight. "If that's a threat about giving my life," he laughed, "try your strength against me now! I am younger and sprier than you!"

LeGourd picked himself up, casually brushed off, and shook his head. "Immature fool," he said, turning to go; "do you not see that there are other ways to ruin a life besides open violence?" Then the white-coated old man slipped out the door.

"Come back!" shouted Armand, but the ghostly leGourd was gone. Then the young Frenchman started in surprise, for he saw Percy descending the stairs from the second floor. "Blakeney," he said, straightening up. "How long have you been there?"

The Scarlet Pimpernel cast a casual glance at the door, still ajar, and at Armand, who was a bit disheveled from his interview with leGourd. "Not long," answered Percy, calmly; "but it looks as if you had some trouble. Your shouting awoke me from a most pleasant snooze."

Armand was about to explain the incident, when a new idea dawned on him. This was the ultimate chance to win back his repute! If Armand could baffle the attempts of leGourd alone, somehow shut the old man down, he would be credited with saving the Scarlet Pimpernel's identity and perhaps his life. Until Armand outsmarted leGourd, he could not relate the situation to his chieftain; for once Percy knew the danger, he would want to handle it all himself.

"It was nothing, Percy," lied Armand; "merely a drunken wayfarer. He is gone now."

"Get some rest," ordered Percy, after staring at Armand with an unreadable expression for some time. "At dawn, I return to Marguerite and you to Jeanne."

Armand nodded his head respectfully, looking the epitome of obedience. But Percy didn't know the secret that he was keeping for his personal redemption.


	3. Chapter 3: Matters of Chance

** Sons of France Chapter 3: Matters of Chance**

Armand returned to his small house with the gardens all around it, and kissed Jeanne as a hello when she came out to greet him. "I take it you had a successful time," she smiled.

"I found the way to get back my life," answered Armand happily. "Now I must spend some tike alone and think about a strategy." And Armand did just that—he racked his brain for a plan, but no logical answer concerning the defeat and humiliation of Sir leGourd would consent to enter his dreamer's mind.

"My darling," said Jeanne the following morning, "why are you not ready? Have you forgotten that your sister and Sir Percy have invited us to their garden party?"

Armand grunted in answer. "You know those social events are not the sort of things that amuse me," he stated. They amused him even less when he was trying to think of a way to overcome a threatening enemy.

Jeanne made her large brown eyes appealing. "Armand, you'll come for me, won't you? Everyone will be there—even some French immigrants like Sir leGourd."

Armand started up from his desk chair. "Sir leGourd?" he asked, breathlessly. Then, with a satisfied smile, he said, "I wouldn't miss it for a kingdom." Any chance of learning about leGourd was important to Armand.

The party was bigger and grander than the supper party a few days ago. Nearly every fashionable lord and lady that side of London was present; for when the ever-popular Sir Percy Blakeney threw party, it would be plainly savage not to come when invited and a pure dishonor not to be invited at all. The lawns and rose gardens outside Blakeney manor were abuzz not only with summer flowers and bees but with people. There were refreshments set on tables, there were lawn-chairs, boats on which to cruise around the shallows of the river next to the Manor, and games played on the open grassy areas. Armand was restless, walking to and for around the grounds in search of leGourd whilst Jeanne spent her time chatting and gossiping with the other women. That was the only thing Armand didn't understand about his wife—and women in general—why in the world they were interested in rumors that probably weren't true and were certainly none of the ladies' business if they happened to be true.

Suddenly Armand halted. In the center of the tables where refreshments, card games, and various entertainment was positioned, there was a platform of boards. Here, some entertainers such as jugglers and comical actors would later give a presentation. In the meantime, any person who wished to give an announcement could stand on the platform and speak the proclamation to all present. Now, standing on the platform, was the white-coated, drooping figure of old Sir leGourd. And through the events that happened next, Armand was too shocked and infuriated to move.

LeGourd spoke. He looked angry, appalled, and distraught. Many felt sorry for the old man and demanded to know what was wrong. "What's wrong?" he growled, his brow shining with sweat. "I'll tell you what's wrong! I was told that Sir Percy Blakeney's party was nothing but clean and patriotic—but there is someone present who is neither of those adjectives! I do not mean to insult our dear Blakeney, for I am certain that he can claim no responsibility for inviting such a dog, yet here amongst you all is a traitorous and detestable hypocrite!"

By now a large crowd had assembled in excitement. Those who were not eager to throw the traitor out of their midst, were merely curious. "Who is it?" demanded the crowd. "We'll fetch him for you and throw him out! Tell us what he did to deserve your ridicule!"

LeGourd pointed a shaking, wrinkly finger at the dark-haired young St. Just. "It is him! Not only is this man a poor-born friend of the Revolutionary Antoine St. Just, but he is also a man guilty of treachery to our mysterious and beloved hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

The crowd gasped and was then silent for a moment. All at once the people began shouting; some demanding where Armand St. Just was and how he should be publicly disgraced, others incredulously demanding evidence of the ridiculous rumor. LeGourd explained in a hoarse shout, "You all cannot have forgotten how the Scarlet Pimpernel was captured a few back by the dogs in powers in France. He made a daring escape, but do you know how he got captured in the first place! This man, young St. Just, sold out his position! Betrayed our hero! And now here in England he has the nerve to live off the wealth of his most esteemed sister, who has no doubt been blind to the treachery."

Many people in the crowd objected to the old man's story. They said it was wrong to accuse the wonderful Lady Blakeney of being in any way related to a friend of the Revolution. Others argued that they had allowed revolutionaries from France, such as Chauvelin, to visit them in the past, and anyway it didn't matter since the Revolution was over. In the end leGourd was taken off the stage and told to have a drink and calm down; for his sake, some people began looking to deject Armand. But there was no need for this, as Armand had vanished as soon as leGourd went off the stage.

Armand had run to the stables. He knew his sister wouldn't mind him borrowing a horse, so he saddled one and rode back to his house, where he slammed the door behind him and spent five minutes devastating his orderly study in fury. "Curse you leGourd!" he roared. "Heaven help me, I'll send you the guillotine if I don't kill you myself!" Armand fell to his knees, in the utter ashes of shame and humiliation. It was one thing if Marguerite and the League knew of his treachery—but not all of social London!

A few hours later, Armand went into the parlor to try and think of a way to defeat leGourd. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw leGourd, calm and cloaked in white, sitting on the sofa. "I told you there were all sorts of ways to ruin a life," said the old man with a laugh.

Armand roared in wrath and sprung toward his enemy, but leGourd was faster than he looked and ran outside in a second's notice. Astride a white horse, leGourd rode away; his cloak streaming behind him and making him look ever so much like a ghost. In the depths of depression, St. Just collapsed into bed.

When he woke up, it was well into the night. Armand noticed Jeanne fast sleep beside him, and her gentle, peaceful face gave him momentary relief from his agony of mind. Then Armand went outside to walk about the small gardens which he and Jeanne and the Elisa the house-maid had all planted and tended. The greenery was beautiful by moonlight, but St. Just hardly noticed as he paced back and forth restlessly. As if he wasn't in control of his own feet, the young Frenchman began instinctively walking toward Percy's house. As he trudged along, the gravel road was devoid of all traffic. The private bridge, which spanned the tiny river separating Armand's' and Percy's properties, was obscured in the black shadows of overhanging boughs.

Blakeney Manor was across the lawn. Pausing under the covered walk which led up to the Manor's great doors, Armand wondered if anyone was awake. He rested on the cool stone porch until he had almost dozed off. After some time there came a great noise of galloping hooves, and up rode Sir Andrew and Sir Percy. Both were pale and breathless.

Springing to his feet, Armand exclaimed, "What is the matter?"

Sir Andrew started in shock, and even Percy looked a little surprised to see Armand here. "Sink me, dear fellow," said the latter breathlessly; "it's nearly three o'clock! May I be inquisitive and ask what you may be doing here?"

But Armand, irritable from the suspicion that Percy had launched a daring venture without him, only said, "Tell me what has happened."

Percy bowed his head ever so slightly, a sign of disparagement and defeat which he seldom stooped to show. "We were transporting the family St. Lucque to the Daydream. From there they were to be taken safely to France." His voice changed to a disturbed whisper: "…Oh Armand, something horrible has happened. The coach we took was unstable; it fell to pieces on the road. Medical personal were called, but I don't think the family's chance of survival is great."

Armand noticed for the first time the disheveled look of Percy and the bruise on his head. Andrew's coat was ripped and there was a trickle of blood on his arm. The stunning reality of the catastrophe smote Armand—an entire family gone in a second's notice. Sir Andrew must have been saved by angel to come through, and as for Percy, he would have been driving and thus thrown from the seat relatively unhurt.

For a while there was no sound between the men. Armand got a few horses tacked up, while the other two redressed themselves, and comprehensively all three heroes rode to the hospital. They were told by the good Doctor that none of the family would survive, except perhaps the youngest daughter who had been protected by her mother's body during the crash. Sir Andrew was to stay in the hospital for a few days, the Doctor instructed him. Armand and Percy exchanged crestfallen glances: for the family, and also because there was one member of the League temporarily out of service.

"How many more émigrés need to be taken over to France?" asked Armand.

"I estimate about a score," answered Percy, closing his eyes wearily. He was too distraught, Armand knew, to even try playing his usual fool's charade. "Six or seven families," he muttered. "And I dearly hope none would end in so catastrophic a way as this. I've never—I've never failed at this before…It's my line of duty, and I have always been the best at it…"

Armand broke in sternly, "Percy, don't start blaming yourself! You didn't fail; the coach failed! There, you may blame the craftsman who built the rotten thing!"

"Sir leGourd gave me that coach in congratulation of my daughter's birth," said Percy, beginning to pull his act together. "I thought his craftsmen were some of the best; ah well. We must keep level heads to in order to get through this. It shall all work out. Le Bon Dieu decides."

Armand did not hear the uplifting part of Percy's speech, for he was too astonished by the first statement. The faulty coach was leGourd's! It was another spiteful deed arranged by the ghostly man to break Armand's will. Upon the realization of this fact, Armand only steeled himself all the more. His mind was filled with stubborn thoughts; no matter what leGourd did, Armand would never submit!

"Armand," said Percy suddenly, in a soft voice with a suspicious undertone, "we didn't talk about what happened yesterday. All of London knows about your treachery, but I do not see you as a traitor. I wanted to let you know that—and I wanted to let you know that I will discover the dog who sold you out. Whoever spread the word of your treachery, their gossiping mouth will be silenced." He smiled. "Now promise not to be too # yourself."

Armand only shook his head, and as he walked away he murmured, "You know my promises mean nothing. The whole world knows it." It was not until nine o'clock that Armand returned to his house. He came into the parlor and almost passed out from shock when he saw who was there.

"Your wife is in the kitchen," explained the house guest, who was of course Sir leGourd. "She was surprised to get a call this early, but she was gracious enough to brew some tea. This place is very quaint, isn't it? Most houses in the area are run by several servants and cooks—but here you and your lady are the masters of the household." As he babbled on in this friendly and trivial manner, Armand stared open-mouthed at the old man.

Suddenly the young hero made a dash for his trophy-sword; Armand had hung the fine rapier on the mantelpiece after receiving it as a wedding gift from Sir Percy. Born poor and untrained in the ancient arts of the aristocracy, Armand hadn't the faintest idea of swordsmanship. However he managed to rip it off the mantelpiece, leap toward leGourd, and lunge clumsily.

The old man showed his surprising speed again. He shifted quickly to the right, so that the sword-tip only just penetrated his shoulder, and never got close to the fatal area of his heart. "Murder, St. Just?" he asked complacently. "And with a lady in the house, too!"

Short strands of Armand's black hair hung about his sweating brow, his face was twisted into a grim and roguish glare, and his chest heaved. "Why shouldn't I kill you?!" he growled. "You, you filthy cur, may God strike you down where you sit! You killed the St. Lucque's!"

"That was just a matter of chance," leGourd lied impassively. "Pure coincidence. On the other hand, things like that do tend to happen to people who keep dangerous secrets…the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, for example…"

"Curse you!" cried Armand. He would have killed leGourd then and there, but the old man pulled out a pistol. Armand froze, unsure of what to do. To his surprise, the ghostly aristocrat stood up and handed St. Just the firearm. "It's a present," he stated.

Armand was too bewildered by this turn of events to move. Why was leGourd offering him a gun? Just then Jeanne's voice shouted, "Oh Armand—come quickly!" After grabbing the pistol from leGourd's grasp, Armand onto the back porch where he found Jeanne. However, something else was here on the portico too, and when Armand saw it he saw it, his stomach churning wildly.

It was the body of Percy's friend, Lord Hastings.

The young St. Just couple stood there staring in absolute bafflement and horror. Armand began to wonder of he was dreaming. Or this could be the realization of his recent visions and dreams: for bodies were everywhere—even on his doorstep. Would the rest of the dream become as well? Despite the sick feeling which threatened to completely overwhelm him, Armand tried to be sensible. It was his mission to conquer leGourd, and he had to think things through. Like Percy. So, why was Hastings here, and was he indeed dead? Was another member of the League gone? Was this new death also plotted by leGourd? And if so, what could Armand do about it?

A band of English police rode up to the porch before Armand had time to act. "You're under arrest," shouted an officer, flaunting his club threateningly. Now Armand really began to wonder of he was insane—why were there police here? Did leGourd summon them?

"It's Fernand leGourd you want," cried Armand. "He's inside in the parlor; you must take him before he flees! He arranged the death of the St. Lucque family, and most likely he assassinated Hastings as well!"

"Stop talking nonsense, and put the weapon down!" ordered the officer.

For a moment Armand did not understand—then he looked at his own hands and found that he was still holding the pistol leGourd had made him take. Suddenly it became clear what leGourd's hateful scheme was: to frame Armand for murder! With the gun in his hand and the dead Englishman at his feet, evidence pointed its judgmental fingers at the young Frenchman.

"According to Sir leGourd and his friends," said the officer, "you were a revolutionary who once worked for Robespierre himself; the new French government demands justice. And if they do not send you to the guillotine, then you'll be brought back here to stand on English trial for the murder of Lord Hastings! Congratulations, Armand St. Just; you are an international criminal."

"No!" screamed Jeanne, jumping in front of Armand to protect him. "Armand is no follower of the Revolution—he is a friend of the Scarlet Pimpernel himself!"

The officer scoffed. "It was made public yesterday that this young man actually _betrayed_ our national hero! Step out of the way, ma'am; we must take this man into custody."

But Jeanne would not be dissuaded. Her face and eyes which normally gave the impression of a delicate and childish maiden were now alight with savage resolution. She thought about what lengths Marguerite would go to, in order to protect Percy. "Stay away from Armand!" she exclaimed shrilly.

But the officer would have no nonsense. In those days police were hardly called into the wealthy areas of London, and when they did come, it caused them all manner of little trivial troubles. Therefore the officer, determined not to have come through those dilemmas in vain, stepped forward to strike Jeanne down.

Pushing Jeanne out of harm's way, Armand took the blow of the officer's club. After that the half-conscious young Frenchman was easily taken away. In fact, the policeman had more difficulty with Jeanne than with Armand: for she was intent on attacking the officer. Just then leGourd intervened, assuring Jeanne that all would be set to rights, with mock-gallantry incredibly like Chauvelin's.

"You ghost!" barked Jeanne. She ran into the house, slamming the door behind her.


	4. Chapter 4: Not to Turn Their Backs

**Sons of France Chapter 4: Not to Turn Their Backs**

Marguerite sat in the homey, elegant sitting room of Blakeney Manor, trying with all her heart to console Jeanne who sat crying next to her. However, Marguerite was herself so worried about her brother that her attempts at consolation were poor. She kept whispering to her sister-in-law that everything would be alright in due time, but her mind was full of dark doubts and puzzlement. For after all, Lady Blakeney had no concept of Armand's designs to conquer leGourd; she had no idea that leGourd was a danger to the Scarlet Pimpernel. What was she to do—indeed what _could_ she do?

"Jeanne," said Marguerite, making her voice as steady as possible, "you must tell me everything Armand has been up to." Surely, thought Marguerite, Armand could not be responsible for in anyway harming Percy's friend, Hastings. And yet Armand _had _been odd lately…the treachery against Percy, the insane dreams…indeed the gun was in Armand's hands!

"I thought Armand was fine," sobbed Jeanne pitifully; "but now I can remember how exhausted and troubled he really was. He complained about dreams, he spent much of his time in his room, and he slept so fitfully!—but I paid him no need! Marguerite, you must help me get to my Armand again! I failed him as a partner and I must pay for my wrongs by proving myself to him in any way possible."

"My dear Jeanne," said Marguerite with a touch of impatience, "Armand would not want to charge headlong into danger. It would be much better if you told me more information."

"The only thing I know—besides the dreams—is that Armand had some score to settle with leGourd. Just before he was taken away, Armand shouted something about Sir Fernand leGourd killing a family of aristocrats…"

Marguerite tied to make sense of what little information she had. "Armand was obviously in some kind of trouble with Sir leGourd," she thought o herself; "so why did he keep it secret? I heard him speak to Percy about regaining his honor—Armand is so hot-blooded, I suppose he could have gotten in trouble and tried to handle it himself, for honor." She mumbled aloud, "Men are such idiots. The only things of value to them are accomplishments."

"Oh, what can we do?" Jeanne cried.

Quite suddenly a servant rushed in and could barely speak the words, "Lord Dewhurst, Madame," before Tony came into the parlor. "Lady Blakeney," said Tony with animated disappointment; "I regret to say that Percy is nowhere to be found. I think…it could be that he went after Armand himself."

"But to leave without a plan…" Marguerite said, trying to stay calm.

Tony smiled his usual entrepreneur's grin. "Lady Blakeney, I know for a fact that Percy always has a plan! He's quite capable of escaping any kind of sealed steel box laid for him! I would go after him, but that old bore Andrew insisted that we let the Chief handle this himself. We shall stay here until Percy's return."

"Very well," Marguerite concurred. Jeanne was surprised at her sister-in-law's submission, but Marguerite whispered to her, "Later."

As soon as Tony had gone—which was not long, for the adventurer was very flighty—Lady Blakeney said, "Now. Both my brother and my husband are in danger, and I do not intend to wait here. I must go, even without an escort! I must speak to Armand."

Jeanne stood up and clapped her hands. "Marguerite, you're an absolute dear! We'll go together! Of course we'll have to be sure that Tony and Andrew do not know of our departure. Oh, and Elisa could take care of your Scarlet—Elisa's an angel when it comes to baby care."

"Jeanne…I can't allow you to accompany me." Marguerite's deep-blue eyes were resolute. "I know it's cruel, but…Armand made me promise. You must stay here in safety; take care of Scarlet."

Jeanne sunk back on the sofa, distraught. "Marguerite, how _can_ you? When Percy gets into scrapes you always go with him or you sneak after him." But Jeanne knew that when strong-minded Marguerite made a decision, she could not argue against it.

Jeanne returned to her cottage, hanging her hopes entirely upon Marguerite, who had boarded a ferry-boat in five hours' time, armed with a passport and a strong heart.

When Armand fully regained consciousness, he was in the cargo hold of a ship bound for France. The sound of the roaring waves outside reminded him if the dream that had once again haunted him—the ghost, the bodies, the sea, and the voice. Thinking about his dream, Armand quickly began to see its path in the recent events of his life—old leGourd chasing him as if he were Chauvelin's ghost, and the sudden deaths of the St. Lucque's and Lord Hastings. Was this the next part of the dream: being carried across the sea as a prisoner entirely without honor? In the dream, the glistening sea and wondrous blue sky seemed comforting, like the end of a great struggle rather than the route to despair. "Unless," thought Armand, "I was meant to die in this ship. That would be almost a relief…to escape from my shame."

Silently, Armand lay down on the straw which was scattered across the floor, hoping that if he could be still enough, he would be whisked away from this painful world. But when no such alleviation came to Armand, the captive sat up and presently sensible thoughts entered his head. Firstly, Armand decided to take stock of his position. After examining his surroundings in detail, the captive came to the conclusion that he was under the care of a French authorities who had hitchhiked onto this, a regular merchant's ship. Since nobody had come to look in on him, Armand guessed there was no chance of walking on the deck, acquiring victuals, or trying to escape, until the ship reached the shores of France. These observations in place, Armand steeled himself against the pain and began to think about past few days.

Confounded in a dirty cargo hold and covered with almost more straw than shame—these hardly seem circumstances fit for a moment of clarity. However, everything was so silent and peaceful here that clarity came to the captive's brain. With a wave of self-reproach, Armand realized what an idiot he had been trying to conquer leGourd alone; the treachery that he was trying to make up for had been a result of the same mistake—wanting to do everything by himself. If Armand had trusted Percy to rescue Jeanne, he wouldn't have been in the position to be tricked into treachery. And here, if he had just told Percy about leGourd, the responsibility never would have fallen on Armand's shoulders, and much trouble would have been avoided. Why was it so hard for him to trust Percy?

"It's not really an issue of trust," thought Armand, "it's an issue of independence. I always have trouble following orders; I always forget to stop and think before charging in. It's happened so many times! Why is it so important that I listen to emotion without thinking of anything else?"

Maybe it was because he wanted to be something he was not. He was always looking to prove himself to somebody, often subconsciously. And as Armand daringly explored his emotions, thoughts, and memories, he began to realize that his need for proving himself came from events very early in his life. When his parents died, he vaguely remembered his father telling him to be all that he possibly could be. As orphans, Marguerite had done more work than Armand, and this further spurred the desire to attest his worth to her. Later, Armand formed a crush on an aristocrat girl and, determined to demonstrate his interest, wrote her a few lines of poetry; the result was an accusation of "seducing" a high-born Lady and a near-death beating for punishment. When he joined the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Armand was not satisfied unless he was on the most daring errands. Then, after Armand fell in love in Jeanne and hotheadedly sold out Percy to the enemy, he begged and prayed for a chance to prove his worth again. Lastly, the situation with leGourd had occurred, and Armand fell into the same cycle of behavior, causing him the same cycle of shame.

Armand knew recognized the faulty pattern now, and he was glad of it. After all, the French revolution with all its carnage had come into being because of the same pattern—people becoming too absorbed in their own defective definition of justice.

Yet how easy it was to fall back into that cycle! It was deeply important for Armand to be honorable because he felt that he was a reflection of his country, and that his family depended on him. The fact that nobody had ever fully respected Armand also contributed to his desire for upright behavior. Armand was always doing the modest tasks and being the "hot-blooded little brother" as many called him.

Now Armand saw that his perspective may have been skewed: perhaps he didn't need to prove himself to anybody. Why couldn't he just be confident in who he was? Like Percy, for example. Percy had to leave his wife and daughter constantly, but he was never ashamed. He had the courage to come home and talk with Marguerite, open his heart to her, explain the reason why he had to risk his life on the daring missions. Percy was a hero indeed, but neither could he be placed on a pedestal, for Armand had seen him do things which no proud Frenchman would accept as noble behavior. A shaft of light just began to break through to Armand's heart: he had no real shame to speak of, just imaginary shame. Then what was he to do next? Whatever he did, he would always be the passionate man he was born to be, but perhaps he could work harder on checking his motives.

While these complex thoughts raced through Armand's mind, the ship had reached France. A couple of uniformed men came down and led him rather roughly out of the ship and into a secluded little cell inside the "House of Justice" which, devoid of Robespierre and his dogs, seemed much a more promising place.

It was dark in the cell, but when Armand's eyes began to adjust he made every observation possible. The whole front wall was made of steel bars. Inside the cell was a bench for sleeping and sitting, a window, a small table on which was laid a single hunk of bread and a mug of water. Through the bars, Armand could see two or three other cells, all empty, and an old janitor cleaning them out. The janitor looked surprisingly fit and well-fed for someone of his position, although he did have a stoop when he walked and a swollen black eye.

Armand was not sure how much time passed—an hour or a day—before he heard the guards in the next room debating whether or not to let a newcomer inside. At length, footfalls could be heard approaching: somebody had come to speak with Armand. The captive sat up and approached the bar-door eagerly.

"Hmm, this place is not to your taste, is it St. Just? I like your little cottage better." It was leGourd. He smiled broadly at Armand, his lank gray hair and wrinkled old face hideous in the obscurity of the chamber. "So you killed Hastings, eh? What for—did he win a bet with you? I have heard that Englishmen take their games seriously and don't lose well…"

"You heard wrong," barked Armand, trying to keep his wits about him. "The English are sportsman and can take it easily when they lose a game. I'm French by birth, but I'm picking up a thing or two. I'm willing to admit that you've got me."

"Good! My dear boy, I'm glad to see you coming to your senses! Just between you and me, the Bourbon Restoration gives me a lot of new power…and I know you don't want to stay in this dreary place."

"Are you suggesting my release?" asked Armand.

LeGourd shrugged his sunken, bony shoulders. "I could arrange something…on the other hand I might testify against you. If your interest lies the former option, you must tell me the identity of our dear heroic sportsman The Scarlet Pimpernel. If, however, you desire the latter option, I'm entirely at your service at any moment."

"I will never give you the Pimpernel," said Armand adamantly.

"Then you will die as a dog in your dishonor!" taunted leGourd.

But this did not faze Armand. He said, "I'm not ashamed. All this time, I thought I was proving my worth to other people, but now I see I was just trying to prove my worth to myself. Making myself into something I'm not—as if I'm play-acting God himself. I'm done with all that."

LeGourd only sneered at the heroic speech. "Listen to me, St. Just," he growled, "you would be wise to halt this Pimpernel's babble and consider your motives more extensively. We all pursue our own goals and we're willing to fight for them. My goal is the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel; and deep down, I believe your goal is peace. Peace for your family and country, am I right?" In response to Armand's silence, leGourd went on, "Give me the Pimpernel and you will live peacefully; or at least live without my constant presence. Think about it, St. Just! The world will never accept you after all this—what else can you do?"

But it was just then that Armand realized what he _was _supposed to do. The thunderclouds of anger and the biting wind of shame were penetrated by one bold bolt of lightening—and Armand _knew_. It is best explained in Armand's own words. As he told Marguerite back at the start of all these adventures: "You would in any case be my own brave sister, who would remember, when France is in peril, it is not for her sons to turn their backs on her." He was a true patriotic son of France. And the same principle was applicable for his family and for Percy: he could not turn his back on them. Right now, Armand could help Percy by not giving away his identity; and later, he could help his country by restoring the Bourbons. The Restoration was no longer a boring task to win honor, but an act of patriotism from the heart.

"My mind is made up," said Armand, "and you'll find it quite hard to argue with me. I'm afraid everyone in my acquaintance has accused me of stubbornness at least once. You may think you need to avenge Chauvelin by hunting the Pimpernel, but I'm positively certain that I don't need to avenge myself to get rid of shame. I have honor in my Family, my Country and Le Bon Dieu!"

LeGourd was stunned. He slowly left the room, but before he was completely gone, he turned back and said, "Then, St. Just, you will die."

"So be it!" exclaimed Armand passionately, almost happily.


	5. Chapter 5: Reunion

** Sons of France Chapter 5: Reunion**

Armand sat in his cell on the floor, with his head resting on his bent knees, and his mind courageously endeavoring to think positively. Only a few hours passed before another visitor arrived: Marguerite.

"Margot!" gasped Armand, both relieved and apprehensive about his sister's arrival. Relieved, that she was safe; and apprehensive regarding the implacable scolding he would receive concerning his heedless actions.

Marguerite was indeed sharp of tongue when she asked, "What happened to you?" On the inside her feelings were battling fiercely with one another, for she was bitterly disappointed in her brother's behavior—and yet she was so exceedingly anxious about his safety. "The Judges are saying that all Revolutionaries should be death…" Marguerite meant to sound strong, but her voice was slightly hoarse as she made the foreboding statement.

"You must help convince them of my innocence," said Armand quickly. "There are plenty of aristos who will stand up for me. If worst comes to worst, my dear, perhaps Percy could do something for me…." He trailed off, and then added with a stiffness of voice that disguised his anxiety, "Of course, I should be glad to die for what is right and good."

"Right and good?" exclaimed Marguerite with sudden vehemence. Containing her emotions with effort, she went on quickly, "I am not altogether sure I can prove your innocence, as I am in doubt that you are indeed thus. You have gone in over your head with this leGourd affair—how can such a stubborn and ridiculous mockery of valor attest to what is right and good?"

"My Marguerite," rejoined Armand stiffly, "are you accusing me of Hastings' murder?"

Lady Blakeney very nearly snarled in reply, "I am not so stupid to believe you capable of that! However as previously stated, you have gone too far with your silly honor. You're getting into matters fur-lengths over your head, little brother!"

"I was a fool about leGourd," admitted Armand hastily, "but I am determined to defend myself concerning the other charges! I am protecting your husband and I may have to die for it, and that, my dear sister, is worthy of a little praise!"

"Praise? Glory? Honor? Oh Armand, is that all you ever think of? Be reasonable!" Marguerite pursed her lips and half-sighed, half-growled in irritation. "Nay," she added bitterly; "nay, perhaps you _cannot_ be sensible. Your immaturity prevents it!"

"That wasn't what I meant!" Armand insisted. "I'm not doing any of this for honor—"

"Do stop trying to exonerate yourself; you're not a child anymore!"

Armand stood up and gripped the iron bars that separated him from freedom. "No, I am not a child," he agreed, raising his voice; "Margot, _you_ are the one who needs to accept that, not I! All my life you have belittled me; everyone has! I've recently discovered my own weariness of pursuing glory, making myself into some hero which isn't me at all; but I am also weary of playing the role that _you_ want me to perform. I am not a child and you are not my mother; you are an overly controlling, manipulative woman!"

Marguerite drew back from the cell. She had never heard her brother be so honest nor so verbally brutal. At first she was angry and hurt, but as she thought about his words, she was aghast to distinguish their truth. Much of her rank and riches she owed to her scheming and manipulation; and although she presumed herself rid of those undesirable qualities after her happy marriage, their influence in her sibling relationship was now appallingly clear. To Marguerite's way of thinking, Armand's acts of service to her were kind favors, but she had been the real caretaker throughout their days as orphans. Although Armand was included in the Scarlet Pimpernel's League, his ventures were always minor compared to those of Percy and Andrew. Perhaps, Marguerite thought, her disappointment in Armand was a result of his having stepped out of the inferiority zone she had imagined for him.

"Margot," said Armand softly, for he saw tears glistening in her appealing blue eyes, "my dear, dear Margot, I am sorry! I'm afraid I had to be honest, but I hope you know that I would rather die than willfully make you unhappy…"

"Do not be sorry," replied Marguerite, collecting herself. "It is I who was wrong. For so long I have mistreated you. Everything you said was right; I was belittling you. But there is more than that…when you told me about how you betrayed Percy, I was angry…." Now the emotions, which she had been trying to keep in check, had slipped through her tightly-clenched hands like sand through a sieve. Lady Blakeney's voice shook with small sobs as she told Armand, "Oh, I can easily forgive you for the betrayal now that it is all done with…but I was so frightened that perhaps my brother was becoming estranged from me. How could you not tell me about all this before now? Don't you see?—that's why I'm unhappy! I'm not certain that I can trust you."

Armand tried to explain the circumstances. "Percy wanted to protect you and me from a rift in our relationship, Margot. He made me promise to keep the betrayal secret, for he did not know that by protecting me he would create a rift himself. I'm sorry I did not come forward with the truth earlier; I was too busy trying to redeem myself."

Marguerite smiled through her tears, and presently wiped them away from her face. "I understand your struggle, my brother," she said at length. "After all…I am guilty of betrayal as well. Unwittingly I put the life of my husband into Chauvelin's hands; that was before I knew that he was the Scarlet Pimpernel. When I tried to redeem myself, to go after him and prove my worth, it only made things worse for me. In the end I came out alive, because Percy had the whole thing under control the entire time. Armand, Jeanne is having the same struggle as we are; she wanted to come after you and prove that she was loyal, prove her own worth to herself and to her…"

"Tell her not to worry," Armand interjected fervently. "Tell her she could not be more loyal were she a hound, nor more beautiful were she a rose!"

Smiling, Marguerite nodded. "I will send her word. You know, Armand, it's all rather odd about the self-redemptive thing. We're all so busy running around in circles that we don't bother to look upward, where our destinies have been written in the stars since before the dawn of time. I suppose, that's what Percy means when he says, 'Le Bon Dieu decides.' "

For a while Armand was quiet, tired from all the emotional stress. Yet there was one more grueling task at hand. "Marguerite my dearest," he whispered, "you can trust me with your life. I know you need proof…so I'll tell you about leGourd. About everything. And then you must tell Percy."

It took quite a while for the young Frenchman to explain all the haunting events concerning Sir leGourd's, but when it was over he felt relieved and light, as if a massive weight had been taken off his shoulders. Marguerite felt the same way; but after a moment, as usual, she got right down to business.

"We'll find some way to get you out of here," she confirmed. "Oh, but Armand!—Percy is nowhere to be found! I suspected to find him here with you. Has he not spoken with you yet? Well the, I suppose it's my task to call on the aristocrats and ask them to vouch for you." Marguerite rose gracefully, balancing perfectly despite her cumbersome (and beautiful) silk gown and weighty hairstyle. Just as she was about to go, Armand grabbed her hand.

"Margot," he whispered, "you might have your own evils, just like anybody, but I believe you are a brave woman. Remember back when you thought Percy didn't love you, when you and I spoke together at the sea by the Fisherman's Rest? Well, I tell you again that it is not for me to turn my back on righteousness. …If I—if they…take me away…before you return, give my love to Jeanne; I know you will always be my own brave sister."

Fighting tears, Marguerite said, "And like I did at the Fisherman's Rest, I ask you again to be prudent!"

Armand smiled. "I'm afraid the word 'prudent' and the name St. Just do not pair well together!" Then, kissing his sister's hand, Armand retreated into the dark corners of his prison cell.

"Get up, St. Just! It's time to go!"

Armand had barely gotten to his feet before the guard swung the door open, took him by the arm, and led him out of the prison area. "Am I going to see the Judges?" asked Armand.

The guard, unusually grim, only said in reply, "You won't have time to appear before the judges, St. Just."

Armand did not understand this context clue until he arrived in the courtyard of the House of Justice, wherein his face became white as he perceived what waited for him there. It was a firing squad. "Wait," said Armand shakily; "am I mistaken, or didn't this new fellow of yours—Bonaparte—agree to embrace fair trials?"

"The judges received information from Sir Le Gourd and his friends," stated the guard. They decreed the evidence they had received was more than enough to condemn you for treason. Some of the men suggested letting you give your own testimony, but LeGourd assured them that you were out of your right mind and only spoke nonsense. …With the Restoration and all, LeGourd had almost undeniable power over the Judges."

"So much for equality," said Armand grimly. "Fine then—" he straightened up, and walked to the place he was instructed to stand— "I am not afraid to die. I have a single request and that is to give my love to Jeanne Lange and Marguerite Blakeney. Will you swear to do this?"

Apparently somewhat sympathetic of Armand, the guard nodded his consent. He stared at Armand for a few seconds, while the silent soldiers readied their rifles, but his willpower seemed to break and he presently retreated into the building. Now only Armand, the soldiers, and the janitor (who as mentioned before had been around Armand for some time) were standing in the courtyard.

Armand was at first too apprehensive to look into the face of death. Would those shots hurt when they hit—bullet upon bullet upon bullet? Would Maguerite be heartbroken? Had Armand lived a decent life? All these thoughts and dozens more flew around his brain like a deck of cards tossed into the air and scattered on the floor; and like the cards, the thoughts began to fall back into place. Armand was no longer concerned with those feelings—an overpowering sense of peace was upon him, for he felt secure about where he was going, and behold he could look up at the firing squad.

_Click_—the soldiers set their guns. Their fingers closed in on the triggers. _Bang! Bang! Bang!_—incessantly!

But Armand was unharmed. It took several seconds for him to rouse enough courage to open his tightly-shut eyes. To his shock, he found that all the soldiers' rifles seemed to have backfired on themselves. Several soldiers were wounded, others merely irritated, and there was a great deal of shouting. Sometime amidst the chaos, Armand felt someone grab and pull him into the shadows of the corner of the wall. It was the old janitor.

"Jolly good joke, eh?" the janitor sneered.

For a moment Armand did not understand; he could only stare at the old man in confusion. Then he recognized the sparkling blue eyes, the English accent, the strong jaw, and the noble brow—this was no prison-hand, this was Percy himself! Once again the Scarlet Pimpernel had baffled and outsmarted dozens of people—including Armand—with his genius and disguise! He had had an eye on Armand throughout the past two days, and he must have arranged for the guns to backfire.

At first, it was puzzling how Percy could have arrived in France so soon after Armand's capture. "You…you knew didn't you?" whispered Armand. "About LeGourd, about Hastings—you knew everything the entire time! How?"

Percy chuckled and raised a slender finger to his lips. "Ssh! All in good time, my dear Armand. For now, do as I say." He spoke hurriedly. "Climb over the wall this instant, quick as a mouse. I'll follow. Those fumbling idiots in the courtyard will hardly notice."

Armand questioned the plan as he hurriedly scaled the wall. "They will see me, Percy! They will know that I have gone and soldiers shall be upon us in moments."

Reaching the top of the wall, Percy helped Armand up and they dashed across the rampart looking down into the busy Parisian street. "They'll know of your departure," he said, "but they cannot catch you, for I've a card to play yet. See down there?—It's the hearse meant to take you away. I've bribed the driver to answer to my orders; if we can get inside the hearse then the worst is over."

After sliding down the far side of the wall, breaking their fall on a heap of rubbish, Armand and Percy made a mad dash for the black-horsed death coach. They threw themselves into the back of the coach like madmen. Then the hearse was off; just in time too, for a small unit of mounted soldiers were issuing forth from the House of Justice. Side by side, laughing and panting like boys after a good sports game, St. Just and Blakeney marveled at their daring escape. The former man kept thinking about how close to death he had come; the latter man seemed to think the entire situation rather funny.

"Where is Marguerite?" asked Armand, when he got his breath.

"Safely on her way back to England," replied Percy smilingly. "I told her of my plan to save your neck, and she consented to return to the manor. The old Count de Tournay is working hard on getting that old fox leGourd arrested."

"I have so much to tell Marguerite," Armand murmured. "I understand my dream now. The woman calling to me from over the sea was my mother, in way: it was the voice of broken France, devoid of righteous men. Calling her sons back to her. I will answer the call."

From then on the ride was silent. Soon the adventurers reached Percy's yacht.


	6. Chapter 6: Shameless

** Sons of France Chapter 6: Shameless **

On the Daydream, Percy and Armand were met with warm greetings from the skipper, as well as fresh clothes and satisfying food. Soon they stood together on the deck.

"How did you know I was in trouble?" asked Armand.

"I did not know all the details at first," answered Percy honestly. "Of course, I knew ever since the night at the Fisherman's Rest that you were in some sort of dilemma. It was not until the garden party, however, that I realized leGourd's hand in the affair. When the old gentleman suddenly left for France at Dawn the next day, I knew I had to follow him despite the depression resulting form the death of the St. Lucque's. Thus I arrived in France one day before you: the same day of leGourd's arrival. I took position as janitor, and finally gathered all the details of your story from Marguerite."

"Incredible," was all Armand could say.

"It could be that," grinned Percy, "or I could have just happened to be in town, and arranged a jailbreak for the pure fun f it."

"I can easily believe that," said Armand dryly.

With a laugh Percy turned to retreat to his cabin; but Armand took his friend's hand, beckoning him to tarry a moment longer. "Percy, I must ask you something," he said, hesitantly. "How…how do you do what you do?"

The Pimpernel smiled, amused. "To which of my admirable duties are you referring?"

Armand took a deep breath, leaning on the deck railing and gazing at the sparkling blue sea surrounding him. "It seems that we all want something out of life and we all have expectations; I have undergone a change of heart, but the struggle to apply new information to my life is always present. And yet you—how is it that you keep up your motivation everyday? You go on without reference to the rest of the world, with no expectations of how an 'honorable' life should be, and perhaps your most heroic accomplishment: never allowing shame passage into your life."

To this Percy answered, laying a friendly hand on Armand's shoulder, "Do not credit me for these, the traits you named just now. I did not create them myself. Like any old chap, I experience times wherein motivation is lost to me; it is fortunate I do not find my power in myself. I live with the traits you named, because I was instructed have as my role model, Le Bon Dieu Himself." Percy had been playing with his monocycle again; now he pointed it upward, indicating the yacht's flag which boasted a fine blood-red image of the wayside flower, Scarlet Pimpernel. "Some people call that flower a star," the Englishman remarked, absent-mindedly, "but I seem to think differently; the flower looks rather like a Cross, if you look at it right, as red as the blood that was spilled on Calvary—don't you agree?"

For a fraction of a second, he fixed Armand with his profound blue eyes, clear and solemn and meaningful. "That's why I do what I do," said Percy; then he turned and walked into his cabin, and the trump-trump of his boots resounded through the wooden planks of the yacht.

"I'm coming home to you, France," said Armand after a moment's silence. "To make you a better place: a city of love." Perhaps, long term, Armand's mission in France was not successful; but it was certain that his spirit touched several lives. And it was now undeniable that Armand was a free man; for now he could stand—eyes turned up at the Pimpernel's flag, hand on his heart, footing secure despite the rocking of the ship—he could stand with no shame whatsoever.


End file.
